


A Picture Does Not Paint A Thousand Words

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Jealous Illya, Jealousy, Know It All Gaby, M/M, Oblivious Napoleon, Some Fluff, Some Humor, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 04:10:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8129968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: Jujitsu means grappling. Or not. Because Illya doesn’t understand that.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Henry Cavill’s jujitsu training photos.

Gaby lounges back on the sofa in Illya and Napoleon’s new office, takes a sip of her tea before placing the cup on her lap, her feet up on the coffee table in front of her. The boys have been bugging Waverly to allow them to move to a bigger office, and now that they’ve gotten their wish, Gaby thinks it’s a splendid idea indeed. There’s not much difference compared to their old one, decoration wise, though. There is still that horrendous Persian rug Napoleon loves, the leather sofa is placed against the main feature wall with a huge painting hung above it, and at the other corner by the window, the boys’ desks are facing each other just like before.

But with the extra space that they have, Illya’s decided he needed a new mustard coloured plush armchair which is placed across from where she’s sitting at the moment.

And that’s where he is currently, concentration fixed on his chessboard.

“This is so much better than the small stuffy room Waverly had chucked you boys in before, although I can’t agree with the colour of your armchair. And I’m actually surprised Solo is letting you keep it. He’s gone soft on you,” she says to him and he smiles without saying a word.

It’s really nice to have a little break from their normal spy work. No international crisis to solve, no secret plans they need to steal from some evil mad scientist, and Gaby relishes this rare moment given to them, even if it’s just a day or two. She smiles contentedly, continues watching Illya play chess against himself (she still doesn’t understand how he could do it), takes another sip of her tea before placing it on the table and reaching for a book she’d brought with her earlier. It’s a novel about enemy spies fraternising and eventually falling in love with one another, and Illya had rolled his eyes at her when she’d read him the synopsis. 

“It’s fairy tale. Impossible to happen in real world,” he’d argued. 

“Well, I believe it could happen if one wants it bad enough.”

“I would not hope too much. Hope is a dangerous thing.”

“Looks like you might have given it thought, Illya,” she had teased him, which had earned her a frightening glare for her effort.

Gaby can’t help but smile thinking about their little banter. Illya Kuryakin may seem like a complicated character but she could read him easily. Sighing, she returns her attention on her book but just as she’s about to immerse herself in the story, the door to the office swings open and Napoleon traipses into the room with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Gaby gives him a questioning look.

“You’re back already?” she says, putting down the book in her hand on her lap. “I thought Waverly said you’d signed up for the extra training UNCLE had scheduled this whole afternoon. It’s only two o’clock now.”

“Training’s been cancelled,” Napoleon replies with a dramatic sigh, dumps his bag on the floor beside Gaby. He then leans down so he could kiss the top of her forehead.

“Oh?” Gaby says, a little surprised. “How come?”

Napoleon is in a plain grey coloured cotton t-shirt with black sweatpants and flip-flops, a far cry from his usual dapper suits, and his hair messy, not slicked and styled to perfection like always, and somehow Gaby finds Napoleon looks somewhat adorable. She smiles at him fondly.

“Apparently Jack, the new trainer, had injured himself on his way home yesterday. Fell off his bike with a broken arm.”

“He fell off a bike,” Gaby says disbelievingly.

“That’s what they say. He lost his balance while trying to avoid a cat crossing a street,” Napoleon explains as he pours himself a drink from the decanter he has made available in their office. Another privilege Waverly has given them it seems, Gaby thinks.

“That’s awful,” she says in a sorry tone but Illya, who has been quite since Napoleon entered the room, makes a funny noise in his throat at that.

“How clumsy is your instructor. And he calls himself professional.”

Napoleon raises an eyebrow at Illya’s snarky remark. “Well, Peril, accidents can happen to anybody.”

Illya just scoffs without looking at his partner. “Unfortunate for him then.”

Gaby giggles as she watches the little back and forth between the two men. She definitely knows what’s going on with Illya and Napoleon’s a fool not to see what’s so blatantly clear. Illya has been very careful about his ‘little’ secret, about how he’s secretly enamoured with the American agent, but when he had seen pictures of Napoleon and his jujitsu trainer Jack in action during one of his training sessions, he had let his displeasure become so obvious, Gaby had cottoned on straightaway. And when she had told him to let Napoleon know of his feelings, he had only scoffed at her, telling her she was crazy for even thinking of it in the first place.

“You do not fool me, Illya. Call it women’s intuition. We always know when something is up.” 

Her insistence had been futile, however, and now, Gaby thinks she has a chance to goad Illya into admitting the truth.

“So how long will Jack be out?” she says, tries to distract Napoleon from Illya.

Napoleon shrugs.

“A few weeks, maybe a month. UNCLE is replacing him with Wilkins, our previous instructor before Jack,” he replies, takes a sip of the drink in his hand. He’s now leaning against his desk, swirling his scotch around in his glass.

“But isn’t Wilkins old? The reason why they replaced him in the first place?” Gaby asks. 

Illya, who’s obviously listening to their conversation although trying his best to look disinterested, quickly cuts in before Napoleon could answer Gaby.

“Wilkins is not old, and I am sure he can do more professional job. There is no need to replace him.”

Napoleon immediately points an accusing finger at him. “You really do not like Jack much, do you?”

Illya merely stares at his chess pieces on the table without saying a word. Of course, he doesn’t like Jack. Who would? Because that stupid man won’t keep his hands off his partner during his training, touching Napoleon everywhere freely with his hands, fingers on his shoulders, hips. The incriminating positions that man gets with Napoleon drives Illya mad with jealousy. And if Napoleon ever finds out how Jack had fallen off that bike of his, his damn good act of pretending and hiding his stupid feelings for Napoleon would be known. And he can’t let it happen. But Gaby’s currently sniggering at him and he worries she will burst his bubble.

And Gaby really has had enough of Illya’s charade. It is about time she steps in because Illya seems not to understand the saying when she had explained once that _‘time waits for no one.’_

“Say Solo, did you know your previous training sessions with Jack the other day was photographed and Waverly thought the pictures taken were so good, they were displayed in the hallway to the gym?” she tells Napoleon while still keeping one eye on her other partner who has started shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“Really? I haven’t seen any photographs,” Napoleon replies. He settles the now empty glass on his desk and walks over to Gaby. “And you’ve seen them?”

“Yes, I have and I agree with Waverly. The pictures were really good. It captures every aspect of Jujitsu and the art of self-defence one needs to master. You sprawling on that matt with Jack on top of you, and then there was another where you were leaning on top of him with your arms on his hips, pinning him down. It’s good photography.”

All the while Gaby was explaining, her arms gesticulate wildly as she tries to mimic the scene she’s portraying. Napoleon can’t help but chuckle in amusement.

“You mean it’s good grappling technique,” he corrects her.

“Well, yes, of course, the grappling, and also the photography. _Especially_ the photography,” Gaby says, emphasising her last sentence with a wink. Napoleon frowns, wondering what Gaby is up to. A bit slow on the uptake, he does an _‘oh’_ when he finally gets it and Gaby rolls her eyes at him. When he turns to face Illya, he sees that he is blushing furiously. Napoleon takes in a deep breath.

“So, nice pictures, huh?” Napoleon says after he’s found his voice, grins at Gaby who has gotten up to her feet. She doesn’t say anything but just makes for the door with her book in hand. She would really love to stay on to witness the imminent confrontation between her favourite boys but decides it is best they have a little bit of privacy for that. 

“They’re very good, Solo. Suggestive even. I don’t really see it that way but Illya seems to think so. That’s what he told me. We even argued about it. Maybe you two should talk,” she says with a soft smile, gesturing at Illya before closing the door behind her.

Once Gaby is gone, Napoleon could feel the slight tension in the air.

“So, is there something you want to talk about?” he starts, tentative.

“нет,” Illya answers shortly, his voice tight and clipped. Napoleon can’t tell if he’s angry or upset and truthfully, he really doesn’t know what kind of emotion the Russian agent is experiencing at the moment. His voice sounds a little heavier than usual.

He continues watching Illya, taking in his seemingly neutral expression and the tightness of his posture. For several minutes, neither of them speak.

And then, when he couldn’t stand the silence a second longer, Napoleon clears his throat loudly.

“So, you’ve seen the pictures.”

Illya remains quiet. Napoleon tries a different track.

“So, they were…suggestive?” he says with one eyebrow raised, tries to sound innocent, and that gets the Russian’s attention.

He has abandoned his chess game now, in fact, his concentration had been broken since Napoleon walked into the room earlier, and now with Gaby gone, there is no one to distract him from the man who is now waiting for his answer. He leans back in his chair, swears underneath his breath when he sees Napoleon making his way towards him. When he is near enough, he pokes Illya’s calf with his toe.

“Suggestive, Peril?”

“Is what I think,” Illya answers stiffly.

“I need to see it so I could judge them for myself. Funny I didn’t see it on my way to the gym just now,” Napoleon says with arms across his chest and Illya’s eyes snap up at that. He had hoped the American agent wouldn’t bring the matter up but, obviously, he’s wrong.

“I asked pictures to be taken down.”

Napoleon does his little head shake.

“And why?” he asks. He is now crouched down in front of Illya, one hand on top of the Russian’s knee. Illya doesn’t flinch at the touch. And if he had felt like fleeing after Gaby’s blabbering, he decides he is no coward. He gives Napoleon a look that’s a bit hard for the American to describe, somewhere between aggravated and a little put out. And Napoleon, in turn, gives him one of his most charming smiles.

“Why, Peril?” he repeats his question and Illya finally answers him.

“Because I don’t like it.”

“And why is that?”

The tapping of Illya’s fingers against his thigh are more pronounced now. For a second, he wonders if he should tell Napoleon his reasons but when his partner’s hand that’d been on his knee starts to slither up to meet his twitching fingers, Illya quickly grabs at it, his quick movement making Napoleon gasp.

“You should _not_ be photographed in that way,” Illya growls at Napoleon while still having his hand in his vice grip.

“But why?”

Napoleon is not giving up, still prodding him on. He’s seen this side of Illya before, his crazy jealous protective side whenever Napoleon’s on a mission to seduce a mark, or whenever he gets too handsy with people other than Illya. Illya had always denied them, had always told him he’s seeing too much into something that’s not there, but now, this, whatever it is Illya wants to call it, can’t be anything else but plain jealousy. Napoleon smirks because Illya simply cannot win this argument. Not this time. And this new revelation is sending mighty sensations through Napoleon’s body. He’s always fought off his attraction for Illya, because damn, a rejection from the gorgeous Russian would hurt, but today, his suspicions have been confirmed. But he won’t be satisfied until he’s heard Illya admitting it himself. 

“Why are you angry?”

“I’m not,” the Russian tells him bluntly. And even though there isn’t a hint of hesitation or uncertainty in his reply, Napoleon knows he’s not telling him the truth.

“Oh, come on, tell me. We’re good friends, aren’t we?” Napoleon asks, and Illya’s expression changes. He lets go of Napoleon’s hand with a hint of hurt in his eyes and Napoleon figures his choice of words might have something to do with it.

“Or are we more than just that?” he tries again, and at that, Illya grumbles a curse and glares at the ceiling instead. It would be so much easier to hate his gut, this damn American who never seems to know when to give up if he weren’t so infuriatingly irresistible and a million other reasons that just pull Illya towards him. 

“Come on, Peril. I’m clutching at straws here.”

Napoleon is talking again and Illya gives him a confused look. “You what?”

Napoleon chuckles and shakes his head again. “You need to give me something more to go with all the mix signals you’re giving me.”

“I am not giving you any signals,” Illya defends himself. But it’s starting to be a helpless cause and with that Illya has had enough. 

“You really want to know why?” he says.

Napoleon nods meekly at that stern look. He scoots back when Illya stands, almost landing on his butt on the carpeted floor at his sudden movement. Ignoring Napoleon’s predicament, the Russian quickly strides towards his own desk and opens up his top drawer. He takes out a blue folder before throwing it on the desk, opening it to reveal the sets of photographs Gaby had mentioned earlier. He picks one of it and flashes it for Napoleon to see.

“Look at this one, Cowboy. This one. He is on the mat kneeling with his cheek pressed on the floor, and his back arched up in the air…with you on top of him like that? Is scandalous!”

“But, Peril,” Napoleon protests but Illya doesn’t give him time to explain himself. He chucks the photograph he’s holding to the floor and picks another one.

“And this one,” Illya goes on, one hand crippling the photograph as he brandishes it in front of Napoleon's face. “This? You are between his legs! And where is your hand at? At his crotch or at his hips? No one can tell!”

“Illya…” 

“And this, look at this! You have him in headlock but his face is in your chest. Maybe he is having too much fun in that position, yes? That damn, тупой ублюдок!”

“What? Oh my god,” Napoleon groans, throws his hands in the air. “Look. It’s standard jujitsu moves!”

“And this last one,” Illya growls. “This one here.”

He takes the last photograph and shoves it at Napoleon’s chest. “He’s trying to bare your top, what is he doing? Maybe he cannot wait to put his hands where it should not be! That is taking advantage, Cowboy, and if you can’t see it, you are more stupid than I think!”

Napoleon stares at the picture which is now in his hand and then gapes at Illya, wide-eyed, and for the first time in many many months (the last time was when Illya had kissed his cheek in a drunken act while they were on a mission in New York), he is rendered speechless.

“Now you know what I think. Are you satisfied?”

For a moment Napoleon lets everything sink in. At a second glance, the last photograph does look a bit scandalous but he never imagined Illya getting this bent out of shape because of it. He must talk to the photographer to capture more pictures of him in training just to spite Illya more.

“Solo,” Illya says, breaking his reverie. “Are you just going to stand there like a fool? Or are you going to explain yourself?”

Napoleon takes in a deep breath. He doesn’t have to explain anything to Illya because he did nothing wrong. But Illya’s angry look is causing his heart to do mini flip flops and his obvious jealousy is too adorable for him to ignore.

“Peril, jujitsu is a form of combat that involves a lot of grappling. So what you saw in those photographs were basically just that and nothing more,” Napoleon explains.

“So you like it?” Illya huffs, still righteously annoyed.

“There is nothing to like,” Napoleon groans. “You know it’s been the basis for many military unarmed combat techniques for years. Jack is merely showing me the right moves which _you_ , have aptly pointed out, I’m sorely lacking.”

“I don’t see the point you attending those trainings. I could easily teach you, no problem.”

Napoleon can’t help but smile now because Illya had just revealed why he’s so riled up. “Ah, I see what this is all about now. You should’ve just told me what you wanted instead of going on a wild rant, Peril. Although, I kind of like it, you being protective of me.”

“I am not.”

“Really? So you won’t get mad the next time I grapple with Jack?”

Illya tenses at once and Napoleon knows he has hit a nerve. And there is no hiding the green eyed monster this time as his hands start to shake. Napoleon knows he has to do something or Illya will burst into another of his raging episodes and Napoleon’s not going to just stand there and not do anything about it. And he knows what he’s good at, and that is pushing Illya’s buttons to the limit until he breaks.

“You won’t be angry if Jack puts his hands on me again, like in those pictures?”

Illya stiffens and clenches his shaking hands to fists. He approaches Napoleon who’s standing against his own desk, and even if his long strides could cover the mere distance between them in a heartbeat, he takes his time. Napoleon sniggers at him once he breaches his personal space. Illya’s got him trapped with nowhere to go but that’s exactly where he wants to be.

“Peril?”

They are face to face now and his amused look at the moment is setting Illya’s teeth on edge. He is skating on thin ice by prodding Illya on, but he wants to see how far Illya would go just to deny what he really wants to hear from the Russian.

“Why is it so hard for you to admit that you’re jealous?”

“I am not!” Illya replies in a raised voice, his glare on him intensifying.

Napoleon smiles and it’s obvious he has to ante up his act in order to get Illya to admit. Being brave, he puts one hand on Illya’s chest, shoves him back a little before moving towards the middle of the room. Curiously, Illya then sees him push aside the coffee table (he is careful enough not to let Illya’s chess pieces tumble off the furniture) and the Russian’s new favourite chair nearer towards the sofa, and with a satisfied look at his work, Napoleon turns to face him once again, spreads his arms wide, making Illya frown further.

“What are you doing?”

“Think there is enough space now, Peril. Maybe we should grapple. If you’re so good at it, why don’t you show me your moves? You’d said you could teach me. _No problem_ ,” Napoleon teases the Russian by mimicking his accent. This might be a terrible idea, but he’s willing to risk it.

“Illya?” he says as he gestures for Illya to come nearer before raising his fists. “Not up for the challenge?”

Illya readjusts his stand and doesn’t waste any time, immediately closes the distance between them. If Napoleon thinks he can win this little game he has somehow conjured, then he is dead wrong. Quickly, he throws a punch at the American but Napoleon is quick to avoid it, ducks to the side.

“Too slow, buddy,” he smirks and Illya grunts.

“Do not be cocky,” he warns and comes in again at the American. This time, not only does Napoleon manage to dodge him, he’s successfully able to wrap his arms around Illya’s shoulders from behind, traps the taller man’s dominant right arm in a firm grip.

“Jack’s taught me real good, don’t you think so, Peril?” he whispers tauntingly.

Annoyed that Napoleon has brought up Jack again, he pries Napoleon’s arms off him with his left hand, and somehow, in a movement too quick for Napoleon to fathom, he’s managed to slip around him, mirroring Napoleon’s move on him from before. Both Napoleon’s arms are trapped in his firm grip but before he could gloat or say anything, Napoleon hooks one foot around his ankle, making him lose his footing and using his body weight, Napoleon slams Illya down on the carpeted floor with him landing heavily on top of the Russian. The fall knocks the wind out of Illya and suddenly Napoleon is straddling his thighs.

“Impressive, right?” Napoleon sniggers but Illya is having none of his smugness. Quickly, he throws Napoleon off by thrusting his hips up, earning a startled gasp from the man on top of him. Illya takes the opportunity to roll them around and he ends up straddling a stunned Napoleon instead.

“My moves are better than Jack, Cowboy, definitely far more impressive,” he mutters at Napoleon who is heaving underneath him.

Napoleon tries to scramble away but Illya has him completely trapped with only his thighs, not even using his hands on him. 

“Damn it, Peril, you are freakishly strong.”

Napoleon tries to grab Illya’s wrists but then he finds his hands are quickly and securely pinned over his head. He gives up for a second and groans. He has certainly been in this position before, but not quite in this context. And definitely not with Illya. He suddenly worries if someone were to walk in on them, wonders what Gaby will say if she sees them like this. It will be even worse if it’s Waverly.

“Peril…” he says, tone warning and serious, but Illya ignores him. He gathers Napoleon’s wrists in one hand, presses it down harder against the floor with one arm across his chest.

“I would like to see how you can get away from this, Cowboy. What did Jack teach you if you are in this situation?”

“I should swivel my hips up.”

And he does what he says, jerks his hips up, and Illya grunts and falls forward, hands hitting the floor on either side of Napoleon’s head to break his fall. Napoleon’s eyebrows raise in surprise at the closeness of their faces, too damn close for comfort, it has him gulping.

For a while, Illya merely stares without doing a single thing. Napoleon thinks he’s going to kiss him when he purposely leans in closer (if that’s even possible), but then Illya pulls away at the last second. Realising he might have been too forward, he releases Napoleon from his grip and quickly scrambles to his feet. Once Illya is off of his body, Napoleon pushes up onto his elbows, offering a toothy, lopsided smile at his partner although in truth he is mightily disappointed at the loss of Illya’s warmth.

“Help me up?” he says with a pout and Illya huffs as he grabs his hand, yanks him to his feet. When they’re standing face to face in front of the other again, Illya moves to turn but Napoleon stops him before he could, puts one hand on Illya’s shoulder. The taller man freezes on the spot when Napoleon’s fingers dance up the curve of Illya’s throat, sliding slowly up until they finally reach Illya’s lips.

“We should do this more often,” Napoleon whispers.

And that is the final straw for Illya. He grabs Napoleon’s hand that’s wandering too tantalising close, places it back down to his side. And if Napoleon is disappointed at that, he finds Illya’s other hand is now cupping the back of his neck, surprising him with his touch, and growls a low warning against his partner’s slightly parted lips.

“I don’t want to play games, Solo.”

“I’m not,” Napoleon breathes. “I swear.”

“You never know when to stop, do you?”

“Just need you to teach me when and how to stop. And I’ll stop if you don’t want this,” Napoleon says but he doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Illya is already smashing their lips together, a kiss that is all domineering and conquering. Napoleon’s brain goes blank for about three seconds, before he starts reciprocating, quitting his passive role as the mere receiver. He brings one hand to Illya’s head, grasping the hair at his crown and drawing him closer to him, and the kiss, _God_ the kiss, is so forceful, so intense, neither has room to pull away. He feels Illya’s hot breath against his skin and surrenders, and Illya is happy to take the lead from then on. Their tongues dance together and he manoeuvres Napoleon’s lips like an expert until he is moaning in Illya’s mouth when he bites his lower lip, his fingers digging into his arms, _everywhere_.

And when Napoleon breaks the kiss to gasp for much needed air, Illya takes the opportunity to push him on the solid desk behind him, hard. A snapping sound is heard when Napoleon's back thuds against it, scrambles up when Illya leans in, scattering everything on it to the floor, yelping at the same time when something sharp pokes his back.

“Ouch! Damn pencils are poking me,” he grumbles and Illya can’t help but chuckle at that.

“Serves you right,” he mutters against Napoleon’s lips that are already curling at the edges, morphing into one of his heart-stopping smiles, a look which had driven him crazy countless times before. Napoleon’s head lulls back when Illya leans in closer and Illya finds himself gasping at the sight. Not knowing what has taken over him, he kisses the exposed neck before him, finding he wants to bite more of that skin than what he usually fantasises about.

And he does just that. He licks and bites and soon, he registers the breathless moans the other man starts to make, and when he bites harder, a hand starts to weave itself through his hair, tugging a little. 

“Illya…” Napoleon moans. It almost sounds like a squeak.

With a grin, Illya pulls back. Napoleon’s eyes are now half-lidded and the lost look in those blue orbs shocks Illya enough to allow him to resist his want, to devour those lips until they are bruised. With a soft sigh, he bends down, kisses Napoleon lightly instead. Napoleon wants to protest but realises he’ll have to take what Illya is willing to give him at the moment.

“You know now why I’m angry,” Illya suddenly says, “and why I’m…jealous.”

He tries to avert Napoleon’s gaze but Napoleon stops him.

“I need you to listen to me, okay?” he begins, planting his hands on Illya’s shoulders as he speaks. “You shouldn’t be angry or jealous. Because it’s merely jujitsu when I’m with Jack. Nothing more. You and I, however, are a different matter altogether.”

Illya is suddenly very ashamed of what he’d done, realising he’d lost his cool when Gaby had started talking about those damn photographs. Face flushed, he tries to move away but Napoleon doesn’t give him a chance to do so by tightening the grip he has now on Illya’s wrists and without resistance, Illya lets them bracket Napoleon’s shoulders, with Napoleon still holding on to him, afraid the Russian might try to bolt again.

“Do you understand now? And are you quite done with your rant?” he asks softly, eyes never leaving Illya.

“Yes,” Illya mutters an answer. Their foreheads now are pressed together, their ragged breathing mingling, and Illya just wants to hide his face, so he does so by leaning his head down on Napoleon’s shoulder.

“You know if anyone were to see us like this, the photos would be far more incriminating than the ones you had destroyed,” Napoleon murmurs in his hair, fingers threading it making Illya purr.

“I haven’t destroyed them but you gave me good idea.”

“It is not that bad, Peril,” Napoleon chuckles.

“Yes it is, and how can you have instructor like that man? He had soft bones. Fell too easily.”

Napoleon’s eyes widen as Illya’s words hit him. “You had something to do with Jack’s accident, didn’t you?”

Illya lifts his head and growls at the American. “I am not sorry. Something had to be done.”

“You’re one crazy Russian,” Napoleon says and Illya’s expression changes at that but before he could say anything Napoleon pulls him down, kisses him again. Crazy or not, he’ll have him no other way.

Hours later, Gaby walks into the office again, not too surprised to find her boys sprawled on the sofa with Illya’s arm wrapped protectively around Napoleon’s waist and Napoleon leaning his head on Illya’s chest, and one arm curled around his shoulder. His eyes are closed and there’s a contented look on his face. She smiles at the sight but shakes her head at the state of their office. There are papers, pens, and files all over the floor, table pushed to the side haphazardly, and Napoleon’s jujitsu photos on Illya’s desk and some are even on the floor too. She doesn’t even want to think what had happened prior to their obvious made up session. And she wants to say something, wants to reprimand them for not being careful enough, because seriously what would have happened if anyone else had walked into the room instead of her? But she doesn’t when Illya glances at her.

 _Fairy tales do come true, Illya_ , she wants to say, but figures she doesn’t need to. Illya’s already known this by the look on his face. Neither of them say a word but Illya can see she is doing her best to smother a grin. And when she does leave the room after giving him the thumbs up signal (much to the Russian’s exasperation), the smile on her lips is as wide as a mile.

**Author's Note:**

> The story wasn’t supposed to be this long but it just got longer as I was writing it. :P
> 
> Google translation is my teacher for the Russian words. Apologies for any mistakes!
> 
> тупой ублюдок - dumb bastard  
> нет - no


End file.
